


Marvel RP Drabble Collection

by merrygo22



Category: Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: BDSM, Drabble Collection, F/M, Gen, Genderbending, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-17 12:03:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3528701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrygo22/pseuds/merrygo22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various drabbles based on RP interactions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meet the Captain

**Author's Note:**

> Based on RP thread with captainbrogers.   
> http://overlyenthusasticagent.tumblr.com/post/109604431754/hailing-the-captain

The first time Bob meet Steve there were a lot of questions running through his mind.  So many rational questions that may have gotten answers, were he only to ask them.  But the one that stuck with him long after the drones were dealt with and the man was long gone was this: Why?  

A question someone could think on for hours and come up with more questions than answers.   Why?  Bob was _Hydra_ , why did he jump at the chance to work with Captain America?  Even if even most of them could admire the man behind the shield this something else.  Why?  The Captain didn't even ask for his help in so many words.  Directions, sure.  Bob could have pointed and been on his way.  But then he just...started helping him.  Helping him fight waves and waves of his co-workers to stop a plan his own leader had put into action.   And for what?  What?  WHY?

There didn't seem to be a logical answer to the question.  It just sort of happened.  No rhyme or reason.  Just what was.  In the meantime, Bob went about his life like the Captain had never entered.  The threat was taken care of.  And to each they parted ways no more sure what had just happened as the other.  For now, it was just that.  The end of a very strange story.  

-

Or maybe not.  As it seemed, that was not to be the last time Bob meet the Captain.  But he has not seem him in such a long time.  

No, he hasn't the Captain in so long.

Steve though?  Steve was right here next to him.  Just where he was supposed to be.  Or at least, that's what it felt like now.  A formerly empty space that he never knew was empty had just the perfect person sitting there.  And while Bob never brought up their first meeting ever again, he still wondered the why.  Not that he would ever change it for anything in this world.  Not when he has this.  It still was a question without an answer.  One his mind would find while he laid in their bed, basking in the heat coming from him.  Waiting out the night with him.  Eager to see his face just before the sun rose.  

Why. 

Why did he help him that one day?  It had lead to so many happy memories and this.  The one thing that would have made any hardship in his life before worth while.  But this night, he thinks he can finally lay that question to rest.  Because, as he found, it doesn't really matter why he did what he did.  Why he helped Steve against all sanity and self-preservation.  All the mattered was now.  

Bob leaned over the shoulder, gently raising and falling to place a soft kiss on his temple.  

This is the only reason he needs.  That's more than enough.


	2. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil came to terms with the blood on Brock's hands. Just not for today. Not tonight.  
> Phil/Brock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Blood  
> Based on RP with badassrumlow

There was a lot of blood on his hands. Phil didn't delude himself...too much about it. Not that any of the others would ever allow him such self indulgence. Constantly reminding him 'this isn't a nice man', 'you need away from him', 'you have no idea what he has done'. Enough that even in his most wild fantasy he couldn't forget the marks Brock bore. He could always see them. Feel them. It was something he had steadily learned to live with despite the many cries for sanity from those close to him. He knew this was the best thing for him. The two of them, even if the entire world said no.

  
This day, however, wasn't one of those days. Today he couldn't look at those hands the same way as he could any other day. They were red, soaking, dripping. Neither were surprised in any way. But now...just now...it was the day he couldn't do it. Barely avoiding flinching at each touch. Every arm around him that he used to find so comforting in a way carried a sense of death. Making himself return each touch with a ghost of fingers and lips.

  
Tomorrow he could be strong enough to see that those stains were his past. Maybe his present too, but he could see past it. Phil could do that as easy as he could breathe. When the sun came back up. For now this was something he just couldn't bring himself to do. Drips on the floor where he had walked. Stagnant air where he had sat. Reaking of death and agony. Not the sweat scents of sweat, fighting for a life all his own. Their own.

  
When night rolled around the silence and the dark was welcoming. So very welcome Phil nearly curls up right on the couch for the night. Eager to greet the next morning when he knows he'll know how to do this. When he won't be too weak for him. Yes, the bliss of sleep sounds like a gift from the gods. Not the ones dressed in bright armour, but the ones prayed to. Ones that may answer prayers. The ones he's sure and not sure are there but it never hurts to play the safe side.

  
He forgets that Brock is a smart man. He knows all too well the signs of displeasure that he tries too hard to hide. The day had been permeated with the stench of it. When the night seemed to come so early his breaking point had been reached. Brock doesn't ask questions. Nor does he give room for argument. He sees the problem of the situation and he has a handle on it. Scooping the much smaller man up as his eyelids start to flicker shut.

  
A short warning comes from the mercenary to not deny that something is wrong. He knows something is. "Don't fuckin' try ta tell me there ain't."

  
Phil is tossed haphazardly onto their mattress. Backing up slightly to just reach the top of the covers. Brock is a statue, watching each and every reaction. He sees distance. That will not do. A problem yes, but something that can be handled. It's a bud. Nothing that he has missed that has festered and rotted. He grasps Phil's ankle, pulling him back down to the edge of bed into the waiting mass of muscle.

  
Of course, Phil has caught on as quickly as one would expect. He isn't a fool, he knows what this is. Something he so often got behind, even in times it may not have been the best solution. The brown haired man keeps his thoughts to himself. Hidden perfectly behind a well practiced facade that only could come from years of practice.

  
The red hands are on him. His mind tries to go back to what he knows is the truth. These hands have touched you before. You knew where they had been then. You know now. They are the same hands you've known. But his lips taste like copper like they never have before.

  
Phil remembers how this goes. Pulling the other's shirt off, opening his thighs wide enough to fit Brock's waist. Just for tonight. Then you can remember what you seem to have forgotten. That he knows him, and accepts him and this doubt is not his own and he curses the source, whatever it may be.

  
And then...the solution gleams in his eyes. Catching the light as Brock removes the large knife tucked into his pocket to set it aside. Phil catches the shining weapon before it meets the floor. Returning it to the open hand it previously resided within. "No. Keep it." He lets a silent plea shine in his eyes. I want you to use it.

  
Brock accepts the invitation graciously. Cutting a slow line straight up his shirt to his neck. A feather touch with an expert hand, leaving not a mark in its wake. Blunt side of the warm steel meeting the smaller man's flesh. A warning. A promise. The ruined cloth is tossed aside. Blunt become sharp. Tracing the mark already there on Coulson's chest. The only thing on his body that Brock did not own. Hate spilling over onto the scar and just as quickly sated. Leaving his own symbol behind. Cut into his skin. 'This is mine'

  
Phil pants his name. Not in pain, but need. Pulling him down onto himself. Smearing the red onto him. Covering the old with the new. Making the blood his own. And he would gladly bleed for him.


	3. Nursemaid Bob

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brock got a booboo. And Bob just wants to kiss it and make it better. Too bad he can't seem to get a grip on this helping thing.

"Your leg is broken!"

  
Something he couldn't place stopped him from rolling his eyes. Yes, it's broken, he can tell. He was there when it got broken. This is not the shocking revelation Bob thought it was. "I'm aware."

  
A broken leg really wasn't anything. Not to someone that's had their faces beaten in to the point it was a miracle they still had a face. Normal people broke their legs. People the didn't make a living rushing into the fire, getting burned and still fighting their way out on their own two feet. No, this was a barely a sprain to Brock. He could walk on it if he wanted. Fight if he had to. He didn't need a nursemaid, a frantic one at that, to concern themselves with it.

  
But goddamn it anyway, that's what he got.

  
A confused, terrified nursemaid. Not so much pacing the floor as he was trying to stomp a path around Brock in a round about way of making a moat. Constantly looking between Brock and the leg. Ever so slightly bending in the wrong direction. What does he do? He's going to get a blood clot. Or an infection. He's going to get gangrene and rot away and die and Bob can't handle that. This man saved him once before from technology hungry demons. Brock was his friend and he can't let down any more friends. And here he was doing exactly that. What fixes a situation like this?

  
"Just stay calm. Ok? Stay calm!" he yelled at the not at all panicked man. Nevertheless Bob treated him as such. 'I can't do this if you don't calm down!' his mind screamed at him. To himself or the mercenary he didn't know.

  
"Bob, ya need-"

  
"Water!" Bob cuts him off with a sudden revelation. It wouldn't fix the leg but it would keep away the infection. "I need to boil you water." It seemed as clear as day. Medical chip defaulting into the first medical need requiring boiling water. "Please remain seated, ma'am. Stop moving and keep still! Do not panic I am a trained professional."

  
Brock barely manages a "The fuck are ya-" before watching him bolt to retrieve said water. Filling the biggest pot he can find up to the brim with water. He can hear the faucet spraying as hard as it can to fill it as quickly as possible. There isn't time to waste here. In medical emergencies time was of the utmost importance. He can't waste a single precious second, second guessing himself or doing things the slow and safe way. So he doesn't bother with the stove. The pot is placed on the hard tile floor with less than his normal care. Setting his lasers to their lowest setting and firing them into it. Direct energy transference. Should get the thing boiling in a matter of seconds.

  
"Bob!" the mercenary yells out. His apartment wasn't exactly a mansion, he can tell what Bob is doing in there. "I ain't havin' a baby, whatdaya think boilin water is gonna do?" That is a question he would really like an answer to. This isn't exactly a situation that calls for such a thing. There also is borderline crazed robot in his kitchen. Neither seem to lead to anything good. He needs to figure out the robot equivalent of jingling keys infront of his face. Hell, he isn't too sure jingling keys wouldn't work on Bob at the moment.

  
'I'd ask what I did ta deserve this but that's a can'a worms I don't wanna open'

  
The puff of steam catches his attention. That was quick. How did he get it boiling so fast? ...did he miss the laser show? He loves the lasers why did he miss it? If the brunet wanted to make him feel better he should be in here shooting things. With lasers. From his eyes. (he missed when he could do that).

  
"Hot water!" he announces as he rushes in with it. Giving no warning whatsoever before he dumps all of it on his busted leg.

  
The noise Brock makes isn't human. Somehow managing to sound in agony, yet disappointed and not shocked all at once. Gritting his teeth to avoid saying something he might regret later on when he has a kicked puppy to deal with. "Yeah," he starts, not quite wanting to touch the leg in question anymore. Steaming like a fresh cooked salmon. "That made it feel great, that fourth degree burn."

  
Bob actually perked up. Smiling to him proudly. The first time since he arrived not half way to losing his mind. "Really?" The smile quickly fades when his sanity catches up with him. No, he isn't fine. He's less fine than he was when you started. "OH. No, no, no, no, I can fix that!"

  
Again, fixing is not something he really wants or needs at the moment. Or ever, he can handle himself. Too bad it seems he can't communicate that to the overly eager man that just can't seem to get a grip on himself. Bob nearly jumps beside him. Trying to pick him up and move him into a more comfortable position. Arms swinging much to quickly. Beaming him in the back of the head with a heavy, scolding hot pot.

  
"Ah! Brock! I didn't mean-" he tosses the pot away. It's hurt his patient. And it should seem it will continue to hurt him. Landing directly on the broken leg, in exactly the wrong spot. A scream of pain, meet by a scream of fear. The two screaming at each other, and after a minute neither knowing why.

  
"BROCK!"

  
"BOB!"

  
The pot is tossed again. This time smashing into the far wall. Knocking the drywall loose. Scattering it to the floor. Bob is up in a second. Searching the house for something. That won't cause unintended pain. He finds pillows. Every single one in the house. The amount not suiting him, so he moves the neighbor's door. The one he recalls would not shoot him at the door. Relieving them of their pillows as well after a short discussion of their importance and a swift boot to the ribs.

  
Wordlessly, he piles them. Interlacing each one for maximum support and comfort. Ok. There is no way he can hurt him with his. These are pillows. How can you hurt anyone seriously with pillows? Reaching to pick up the burned man and place him in the pillow nest. Of course he's meet with resistance. This is, in turn, meet with a tightly wrapped blanket. Swaddling him like one would an infant. "Did ya seriously just do what I think ya just did?"

  
And...maybe the blanket was a bit much. Overstepped there. Just...undo that.

  
"Are you sure those pillows are soft enough? I can get some more," Bob questioned, while simultaneously not waiting for the answer and attending to the pillows anyway. It must not have been soft enough if the sour look on the mercenary's face was a decent measure of comfort level. Maybe it's lumpy? He prefers down? There was a list a mile long of why the pillows displeased him and Brock didn't seem to be sharing the answer anytime soon. Which is fine, really. That's what Bob is here for. To take care of him in his time of need. Certainly it has nothing to do with the seared flesh and possible concussion.

  
Well...need may be a strong word to use.

  
"Pos'tive. Now wouldya stop beatin' to fer a minute?" Brock rubs his temple as he tries to keep a level head. This is why he didn't tell Bob about his leg in the first place. It was only unfortunate circumstance that the 'bot found out for himself and took it as his own personal mission to see him better. Fantastic...

  
"It's still lunch. You never told me what you wanted. I can make anything. Soup, sandwiches, salads, steak, seafood, burgers, pasta, potatoes, rice, breakfast, applesauce..." after it became apparent Bob was going to list every single item of food he could make the droning tone was completely tuned out from his mind. Going to need that skill in the very near future. It doesn't look like he'll be leaving anytime soon.

  
'Jus' calm down...he's yer puppy. Jus' let'im tire himself out.' Unfortunately forgetting that his puppy in particular does not require naps. No siesta. Forever.

  
Five minutes had gone by and the brunet still wasn't done with his list. Times like this made it almost hard to remember he was still a person and not a computer mechanically listing services it could provide. Patience had an end though, and Crossbones' was rapidly approaching. It may have been long passed.

  
A gloved hand comes up. Not speaking, not raised in anger. Just raised. Making sure the mechanical man saw this action with a tiny wave of his fingers. A gentle gesture. 'Stop'. The command was immediately obeyed. Pursing lips to keep any new works in as per request. For a few short while, that was how they sat. Bob awkwardly fidgeting in the dead silence. Pins are dropping somewhere, he's sure of it. Brock keeping his hand raised. Not so much as a twitch astray.

  
Going to take a moment to reflect. "Bob. Ya already made tha sling for my arm dat ain't hurt, a pillow fer my leg, ya don't need..." he stops, hand finally falling when he sees Bob's face. Eyes full to the brim of disappointment, glistening with sadness. 'Did I not do good?' Fuckin' hell. Brock pinches the bridge of his nose. "Soup. Get a bowl. An don't get fancy, I gotta can in the kitchen."

  
Not a moment after those words left his mouth did the other's mood immediately skyrocket back to jubilant. Rushing out to do as he was told now that his self imposed charged wants to cooperate fully. He isn't ecstatic that he wants canned soup and not homemade. He'll learn to deal with though. Personal preference. Everyone has them and it doesn't make their taste any better or lesser. Rumlow wants condensed soup that's exactly what he'll get.

  
Brock fell back into the pile of pillows he was cocooned in. He didn't want it, but Bob wasn't satisfied until he was sitting in the aftermath of the threeway of the Pillsbury dough-boy, the fabric softener bear and 3 metric tons of cotton. Maybe he can sink in and never find his way out. Judgement day will come and go before he makes his way out of these pillows.

  
'He just had to come over...'

  
At least he would be kept busy with the hot bowl in the kitchen for a while. Gives him a moment to not be showered with misguided concern and pain. The puppy rubbing his leg was cute, but after it has been doing it for half an hour it was time to nudge it aside so you could move.

  
Bob comes back with a hot bowl. "Great. Now keep it away from me until I'm sure I won't get any MORE burns."

  
Ah yes, there's the kicked puppy face. Facepalm, time? Facepalm time. "No, don't..." he groans. Of course. "Come here."

  
The empty spot on his side is patted. Edge of the nest of pillows he still can't seem to get out of. Bob again follows his orders. Setting the hot bow on the ground. Sitting down next to him, within arms reach.

  
There we go. See how simple that was. Why can't the others listen like you do. "Now. If ya tell anyone this I'll turn you intoa calculator. But...stop tryin ta kill me and I'll let ya help me out around, here. "

  
Bob immediately became a bundle of joy. Embracing him with everything he was worth. Squeezing some apparently sore ribs and jostling his leg out of alignment.

  
"...Booooob."


	4. Snowed In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brock and Phil's 'ski vacation' hit a bit of a snag. And several tons of snow sliding down a mountain.

This wasn't supposed to be an avalanche zone. When Brock found Phil under all this shit, someone was getting an earful. Of bullets. Or a knife, that might be better. Sticking out of the side of their goddamn head.

"Rabbit?" he yells to the pile of fluffy, cold snow. He doesn't hear a response. That's...concerning. Certainly not enough to send him into a panic. Or frantically digging the piles of snow away like a mad man.

'If ya died down there, I'm gonna fuckin' kill ya myself'

The snow is getting heavy. His fingers numb. And he's starting to see something grey and black in the white white white.

"Rabbit?" That wasn't hopeful. It was calm. A simple question and not relief and dread and joy all rolled up in one. 

Coulson smirked up to him as Brock forgot the numb pain and shoveled the frozen tomb away. "Hey," his voice is weak from the cold. Face flush. And fucking winks. "I dig you too."

Brock immediately starts putting the snow back over the hole.


End file.
